Читать книгу The League of Five - Aidan de Brune - Страница 9

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FOR many minutes after Inspector Paull had left him, Murray paced the room, worried and perplexed.

What did the detective know? What had he meant by his parting words? Why had lie produced the playing-card blank in that strange manner? Where had the police officer found the card?

He had said he had come from Anton Sinclair's Chambers. He had stated that the blackmailer had disappeared. Had he found that playing-card in Sinclair's chambers? If so, then how had it come there? He turned to the cabinet and found the blank cards. Five of them had been taken the previous evening. Four of them had been carried away; the fifth was in his possession. There should, be forty-seven cards remaining. He counted them slowly. There were forty-seven cards remaining!

From where had come this new Card—the fifty-third!

He turned to his desk in the corner of the room. He drew out the drawers from one of the pedestals and, reaching into the space, touched a spring. The shelving came forward in his hand.

Again he reached into the space, tilting down a long-lidded drawer. He lifted the cover and took out a manuscript book, placing it on the desk. Replacing the secret drawer he slid the shelving into place. Seated at the desk he opened the manuscript book.

Under the cover lay another of the playing cards. Through a powerful magnifying glass he compared the two cards. They matched exactly. He turned them face upwards. While the card the detective had found bore a blank front, the other was covered with fine writing. If he obeyed the instructions on the card—and he was bound by oath to do so—he would leave his chambers within an hour, to disappear in the spaces of the continent. Only when he learned of Anton Sinclair's death would he be free to return to the city.

From the manuscript book he took the letter he had received from Anton Sinclair. The writer stated that he had become possessed of certain information regarding Murray's father. A meeting was suggested. There was no mention of money. But, the brief, cautiously worded lines reeked with a sinister suggestiveness.

Murray's first thought, on receiving the letter, had been to face the blackmailer. He had resisted the impulses, determining first to learn something of the writer. Almost immediately he had come on a story of spoliation, terrorism and despair. With grim determination he had forced on the investigations. The conclusions utterly damned the man. Where he passed he left a trail of ruined lives. In the manuscript book Murray had recorded the histories of Anton Sinclair's victims. From that maze of ruined lives he had picked out four men; men of determination and nerve, who, backed by the power of his money, would free the community from the blight. He had brought them to Sydney, bending them to his purpose. His scheme had appeared fool-proof.

Now Inspector Paul! had informed him that Anton Sinclair had disappeared; that the papers he held over the fortunes, of many people had disappeared from the safes. What did that mean? Who had anticipated them—the men he had named the League of Five.

Had Anton Sinclair obtained knowledge of his plans? Murray could not believe that. He had acted with the utmost caution. He had taken no one into his confidence until the previous day. Yet, within a few minutes of the drawing of the lots Anton Sinclair had disappeared, taking his papers with him. There was another theory. Had someone unknown to him moved against the blackmailer? That was probable. Sinclair had injured many. Had someone abducted the blackmailer and stolen his papers?

If so, then they faced a new danger. With Sinclair's papers in unknown hands they could not act. They would have to wait; wait until, out of the blue, would come new demands, imperative and exorbitant. Murray rose from his seat and paced the room. He must act. In some way he must stop the four men who had left him the previous evening, pledged to a definite work. He must find them; cancel their instructions; bring them together again. If the blackmailer and his papers were in the possession of some unknown enemy they must discover who that enemy was.

He turned to the desk, searching the pages of the manuscript book.

"Frank Carslake." Murray's finger rested on the name.

"Frank Carslake, constructional engineer, aged 34, address Wilton-street, Fitzroy, Melbourne."

His finger slipped down the written record of the blackmailer's actions that had turned Carslake into an implacable enemy. "Brought to Sydney to advise on construction of Mattalong-Abelong railway. Address Sydney Hotel."

Murray telephoned the hotel. A few moments and he learned that Frank Carslake had paid his bill that morning, stating he would be absent from the city for some days. Impatiently, Murray looked at the clock. It wanted ten minutes to mid-day. At that hour the four men were pledged to leave the city—leaving the fifth man to carry out the scheme of vengeance they had planned. He turned again to the manuscript book.

"Maurice Ottly, assistant accountant, Stock and Sharebrokers' Insurance Co. Ltd., Pitt-street, Sydney. Aged 27, private address, 'Vale-end,' Acland-road, Rose Bay."

He rang up the insurance company to be informed that Ottly had telephoned them that he could not attend business for a few days owing to indisposition. Murray rang up the boarding house to be informed that Ottly had packed a bag that morning and departed, stating that he was going into the country on business.

Murray looked at the clock. This inquiry had taken five minutes, and there was still another two more men to find and stop. He turned to Albert Roche's record. The note showed Roche to be a journalist engaged on the Morning Mirror. His private address was 11a Phillip-street, City.

The newspaper switchboard informed him that. Roche was not on duty that day. The Phillip-street address was not in the telephone book.

The first chimes of mid-day were striking as Murray turned to the last record—Godfrey Stephen Parsons. The previous day Parsons had moved from Tower Square to the Cheviot Hotel, in readiness for a quick start when the lots were drawn.

Murray rang up the hotel, to learn that Parsons had left that morning, stating that his business in the city was completed. Murray replaced the receiver, dropping his head in his hands. He had failed.

He had started an avalanche he could not control. For days the men would he lost in the spaces of the continent. Only when they read that the work of vengeance was accomplished would they return.

But, one of the five remained in the city, hiding amid, the multitude of workers.

He was watching, perhaps, at that very moment Tower Square and the Chambers from which Anton Sinclair had disappeared. Watching, with hate in his heart, for the opportunity to strike the fatal blow and seize the papers. The man was well-armed for his task. From the drawer in the hall-stand he had taken a packet containing the keys Of Anton Sinclair's chambers, the combination working the safes concealed behind the bookcases, everything that money and forethought could suggest to make safe the adventure of vengeance. Which man had drawn the fatal card.

Murray tried to reconstruct the scene around the table. He had scanned the faces of his companions as the cards fell. At that time he had prided himself that not by a flicker of an eyelid had one of them betrayed emotion.

Now, in the silences of the bush-lands three of them waited. For what? Inspector Paull had said that he was not giving information to the press. That meant that four men would continue to obey the instructions written on the cards. Three of them would he lost; one would be watching Anton Sinclair's chambers, death in his hand. Murray crossed the room and rang the hell. He could not betray his friends. Within a few minutes he must leave his home. In hiding, he must wait and watch for news of the blackmailer's death, prepared on the instant to comply with the instructions that would safeguard Anton Sinclair's slayer.

"Martin." He spoke as the servant entered the room. "I asked you to pack a bag this morning. Is it ready?"

"Yes, sir."

"Please have a taxi called. I leave in ten minutes."

"Yes, sir. If you please—"

"Well?"

"A lady to see you; sir—a young lady."

"A lady? Did she give her name?"

"Miss Wayne, she said. Will you see her, sir?"

Murray nodded. Who was this girl and what did she want? Some instinct told him her call bore on the mystery enveloping him. He turned as the girl entered.

For a moment she stood within the door, scanning him, curiously.. "You are Murray Lynnex?" Her voice was low.

"I am Murray Lynnex. Will you not sit down?"

"You had friends here last night. A card party, I believe?"

"Yes."

"Murray Lynnex." The girl advanced a step, speaking earnestly. "Where were you after your friends left? Did you come to Anton Sinclair's chambers? Murray Lynnex, did you murder that man?"